Game of Thrones: We Do Not Sow
by The Essence Of Randomness
Summary: The North has marched to war, but in the Riverlands Tywin Lannister reigns supreme. As he moves to consummate his power, the King in the Iron Islands makes his presence known. The Iron Fleet has gone to war, and no navy in Westeros can match it's power. Lord Eddard Stark must move quickly to get his family back, or else lose everything to the Lannister rebels...


**Game of Thrones: We Do Not Sow**

The Lannister banners were raised above Riverrun, and the dungeons were full of captured knights and nobles. In the Great Hall, Lord Tywin sat at the long table, his brother Ser Kevan to his left, and his son Tyrion to his right. Before him, in fetters and chains, sat the last three Tullys. Catelyn and Edmure had surrendered without a fight when the Lannister forces had stormed the keep, but the Blackfish had slain nine men and injured two more before one of Tyrion's mountain clansmen took three of his fingers off and broke his nose. Tywin was sat scratching at a piece of parchment. "Your husband, Lady Stark, has my grandchildren." He said, not looking up from his writing. "I intend to offer the three of you in return for them." "Ned will never do it!" Catelyn replied defiantly. "He won't!" Lord Tywin glanced up at her. "Family, duty, honour, Lady Stark. I have no doubt you would die here, right now, for your family. Your husband had best hope he doesn't see what I would do for mine." He finished writing the letter, sealed it, and handed it to a Maester.

"See that our guests are given comfortable chambers." Tywin ordered, then turned to his brother. "Kevan, we must increase our hold on the Riverlands. Riverrun gives us control, but the River Lords will not recognise it unless they are culled. Take a force and deliver both Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge to us. Tyrion," He turned to his son, who was drinking deeply from a cup of wine. "You proved yourself, and for that I thank you. I entrust the recapture of Wayfarers's Rest to you."

"A castle. Big, stone! Walls!" Tyrion said, waving his arms at the clansmen. "Halfman promise us steel and gold. Not stone house." Shagga replied. "I promised you glory as well, didn't I? And I delivered that!" Shagga seemed to agree with him there, which was good, but the clans still wanted to go home. Tyrion wanted to let them, but his father had not given him any men, all he had were those he could procure for himself. "Halfman take stone house...give to Shagga, Dolf's Son." Shagga insisted. "No!" Shouted Timmet. "Give to Timmet and Burned Men!" Tyrion raised a hand. "Each clan will have stone houses, I promise!" He said, trying to soothe them.

He departed the next day, nearly two thousand clansmen mounted, and another four thousand on foot. A lot of the mountain dwellers were uncomfortable on horses, but Tywin had provided for any that would take them. Of course, some just wanted to eat them, and he hadn't allowed that. For his contribution to the siege of Riverrun, Ser Kevan had knighted Tyrion, and Tyrion had in turn knighted Bronn, which turned out to be a bad idea because the sellsword decided he should be paid more. Tyrion still wasn't quite sure how to be a knight, but he figured it would involve much the same things as he'd done before; drinking and whoring. "I am Ser Tyrion Lannister, the Knight of Tits and Wine!" He had proclaimed in his cups, but the name had stuck, much to the chagrin of his father.

The Mountain had survived the attempt on his life, so his job went on. Up and down the countryside he rampaged, burning, killing and raping. And then the raven had arrived from Lord Tywin. No more outlaw work. It was time to take a castle. Pinkmaiden was the seat of the Pipers, who had just sent the majority of their forces off to take Wayfarer's Rest. Ser Gregor had gathered what men he could, amounting to nearly a thousand total, and rode hard across the countryside, intending to take the castle by surprise during the night. The garrison that remained still outnumbered them, but Gregor knew each of his men was worth ten of theirs.

That night, while the castle slept, he scaled the wall with two of his best men and slew the guards. They opened the gate and let the rest of their cavalry in. A few men resisted, including Clement Piper himself, but Ser Gregor took his head off. His son Lewys turned out to be more compliant. "Your brother is a rebel and a traitor." Gregor said to him. "You are now Lord, in the eyes of gods and men." He then had Clement's head sent to Marq at Wayfarer's Rest. Gregor had even impressed himself with this conquest, and he doubted the Imp would have this easy a time of his.

"I do not like this Red Woman Your Grace." Said Ned Stark. The Red Woman, Meslidandre of Asshai, had arrived in King's Landing just after the fall of Riverrun, and the King had taken an instant liking to her. Whether that was just because of her foreign beauty remained to be seen. "The Faith do not like her either." Gendry looked up at him. "I didn't take you for a man of Faith, Lord Stark?" He said. "It does not matter to me what God you follow in private, Your Grace, what matters to me is the people. And the people do not like her."

Dany traced the path with her finger. Out from Slaver's Bay, past Velos up to New Ghis, then alongside the Basilisk Isles to Naath. From Naath it was one straight line to Westeros. "Ser Jorah," She said, moving her finger from Astapor to the Smoking Sea. "If we went through the Smoking Sea we could cut almost a week off the journey." Jorah grimaced even at the name. "Khaleesi, those waters are not safe for any ship." He said. Irri, Dany's handmaiden, nodded. "The seas boil and burn, and there are Krakens. It is known." Dany knew all the stories of course, everything since the Doom came to Valyria. She looked up from the map. "Tell Grey Worm to take his Unsullied round the long way." Jorah's face paled, and even Strong Belwas seemed afraid. "I am Daenerys Stormborn, of the Blood of Old Valyria. Those waters hold no threat for me. Change the course, ser."

No ships had reached Lannisport for three weeks. Only one attempt had been made to break the blockade; a fireship loaded with oil and dry wood was sent out at high speeds towards the Royal Fleet, but Davos had had his catapults fill the hull with holes, and the ship sunk before it could burn. So now they waited, keeping a watchful eye on all sides. Any merchants were free to trade at the Feastfires or Tarbeck Hall, the two castles between which the blockade stretched, but none could get to Lannisport itself. His fleet numbered fifty ships, several large war dromonds and the rest cogs and holks. Davos Seaworth himself captained the fleet from the biggest of the dromonds, a huge beast with a black hull named _Stone Dragon_.

The Iron Fleet cut through the waves at speed. The wind was with them, keeping the sails full, and the oarsmen down below were rowing furiously. Nine tenths of their strength sailed with them, ninety strong longships, each built for battle as tested many times. At their head, on his flagship _Iron Victory_, Victarion Greyjoy blew his warhorn. It was answered by other horns from the rest of the fleet, and the drums began to pound out a steady rhythm. The Royal Fleet was in view soon, flying their Stags proudly. Victarion blew his horn once more, and donned his helmet, a great silver steel thing hammered into the shape of a kraken.

Theon stood on the deck of his own ship, _Iron Prince_,and ordered ramming speed. Alongside him the rest of the fleet were matching their speed, charging towards the line of warships blocking the bay. They started firing their bows and scorpions, but the battle would be won with steel, not from afar. "Theon!" Jon called. Theon turned. Jon had been tied to the mast, legs and arms lashed tightly. He was blindfolded, but he could still hear the fighting. "Stop this!" Theon scowled and grabbed his bow. Ignoring Jon's protests, he focused on his targets. He nocked, drew, released, and a man died.

_Iron Victory_ was the first into battle, her ram smashing a hole into a smaller cog named _Starfire_. Victarion braced himself as the two ships collided, and as they made contact he hurled himself over the rails and onto the deck of his enemy. A sword struck him in the shoulder, but was turned away by his heavy plate armour. Most sailors in the Seven Kingdoms wore boiled leather or chain mail at most when on ships, for fear of being weighed down should they fall in, but drowning held no fear for Victarion Greyjoy. He spun around, his axe slicing into the chest of the man who had attacked him, then turned again to find another target.

"Catapults!" Davos barked, trying to rally those ships that had not been caught in the initial attack. A volley of rocks brought down one longship, Davos was satisfied to see, but more of his ships had fallen. Two were afire and sinking fast, another had already disappeared beneath the water, and the Greyjoy flag was being raised on the mast of one of the frontal cogs. Davos barked an order and _Stone Dragon _plunged into the fray, slipping alongside a longship and peppering the Ironmen oboard with arrows.

And then the whole deck was shaking. Davos was thrown forward and fell onto his face. As he staggered to his feet he realised they had been boarded. A huge man in heavy plate mail was leading the Ironborn onto his ship. Victarion Greyjoy had arrived.

The Golden Compnay left Volantis the day word reached them about the Sacking of Astapor. "The Dragon Queen has eight thousand Unsullied and a horde of Dothraki." Jon Connington said, shedding for the last time the guise of Griff. "But we are the Golden Company! And we have the true King!" Aegon was dressed like a king in truth that day, black and red mail and boiled leather with a billowing cloak emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of his house. He would go to Westeros and offer Daenerys his swords, and when their war was won, they would wed, as the Targaryen kings and queens of old had.

They were closer to Westeros than Daenerys was, but their army was larger, so they'd be moving slower. "The Lords of Westeros will rise up for you, Your Grace." Jon Connington said that night, as they sat on the deck, watching the stars. "So you keep saying. But what if they rise for my aunt instead?" Aegon replied. "You must pledge your forces to her. Only once the throne is in Targaryen hands may you press your own claim." Aegon didn't much like that, but he knew neither of them could hope to win without the other.

"Catelyn, Edmure, and Brynden." Ned said, reading the letter he held in his shaking hands. "For Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen." The Small Council had gathered quickly upon the arrival of Tywin's letter, and all of them waited with baited breath to see what he had to say. "The Lord of the Riverlands? For three children? We should do it." Said Gendry. "This is Tywin Lannister." Said Ser Baristan. "To him these aren't children, they're his legacy." Renly nodded his agreement. "With Cersei dead he can bring them up the way he wants, perfect little Lannisters." He said. Gendry looked at his advisers. "So you're saying we shouldn't do it?" Grandmaester Pycelle shook his puffy neck. "Your Grace, they are simple children. The war will be...won before Tywin can influence them in any way."

"Your Grace would be wise to accept this deal. With Lord Tywin claiming the Riverlands as his own, Edmure Tully could be an invaluable ally." Added Varys the Spider. "I don't want to see my wife die." Said Ned. "We'll do it then. Lord Stark, you'll go to Highgarden to see it done." King Gendry proclaimed.

At The Twins, Robb was alone. Always surrounded by knights and Lords, yes, but alone. He had sent Theon away, sent Jon away. He had left Bran and Rickon at Winterfell, his sisters and father were in King's Landing, and his mother was a captive of Tywin Lannister. But there he sat, waiting for an order that might never come. That night he met with Rickard Karstark, Greatjon Umber, Walder Frey, and all the other Lords of the north in the hall of the east tower of the Twins. "Leaving us so soon?" Drawled Walder Frey in a voice that implied he was not at all sad to see them gone. "And how beautiful your armies all look camped on the side of my river." The Greatjon laughed bawdily, but Robb took the slight with grace. "And I shall miss your warm hearth Lord Walder, but the Riverlands need our swords."

Walder nodded from behind his shallow smirk. "Of course, of course. You will take the Kingsroad?" He asked. Robb felt uneasy about telling him his plans, especially with The Twins sworn to Riverrun, and Riverrun under Lannister control, but he saw no other option. "No my lord, we intend to keep as close to the Green Fork as we can. That way no Lannister host can take our flank." He replied. Lord Walder nodded as if these were sound tactics he'd thought up himself. "A good plan, yes." He said. "You are all welcome back any time, I hope you know."

Maester Aemon listened carefully as the steward read the letter to him. His useless eyes studied the boy carefully, seeing nothing. Weak and fat, Samwell Tarly had been beaten nearly to death during his training, and had only survived because Aemon had taken him as his own personal steward. "Lord Commander Mormont is…Lord Commander Mormont is dead…betrayed and killed by his own men." Sam's voice was even more quiet than usual. The rest of the letter was in a different hand, scribbled and short. "Traitors taken Craster's keep, survivors, coming back to wall." Sam read. Measter Aemon shook his head sadly. "Send out twenty Rangers to see them home." He said. "B-but…all the best rangers went with the Lord Commander." Sam replied. "You will find the men Tarly."

Asha's Greyjoy's _Black Wind _swept into Ironman's Bay at the head of a small fleet. Her uncle Victarion had taken most of their ships south to Lannisport, but her own mission was to take Seagard, the seat of House Mallister. She had with her ten longships, all crewed by experienced raiders and soldiers. The day was calm, but foggy, and she couldn't see the land from deck. Which was good, because it meant they couldn't be seen coming.

They came upon Seagard suddenly, and Asha ordered a full halt. She didn't plan on attacking them, not yet. The other nine warships fell in beside _Black Wind _and stopped rowing. "Do we send an emissary?" Asked Qarl the Maid. Asha shook her head. "No. If they want to bandy words with us, they can send their own men."

Sending their own man was exactly what Patrek Mallister intended to do. He had all their ships readied and crewed within hours of spotting the Ironborn off the shore. "I will lead the attack myself, from the deck of _Mallister's Fury_." He said. The Mallister flagship was a Holk, the only one that remained at Seagard; all their other ships had gone to Lannisport. So he had four ships. From what he could see, the Ironborn seemed to only have five, a small naval force, but large for a raiding party. "Balon Greyjoy has made a mistake." He said, pulling on his leather greaves and tightening his sword belt. "I'll send him back his daughter's head." They had recognised _Black Wind _instantly; anyone that lived around the Cape of Eagles knew of Asha Greyjoy and her ship. Most of them had lost family or friends to her.

They sullied out in force, scorpions loaded full of huge steel bolts, archers and crossbowmen at the ready. Mallister's Fury was at the head, a great wooden ram mounted on her prow. Through the fog they could see the five Iron ships. Patrek ordered the advance. Asha Greyjoy's Black Wind pulled back, and the other four followed suit. Their scorpions opened fire, but they weren't quite in range. His ships began to pursue the fleeing Ironborn, Mallister's Fury leading a spearhead. And then suddenly the raiders weren't fleeing. Out of the fog on both sides of his ship, Patrek saw two longships charging toward him. The scorpions fired again, volleys of iron exploding from either side. But it wasn't enough. The rams hit at the same time, both plunging deep into Mallister's Fury's hull. He ripped his sword out and turned to meet the Ironborn coming aboard. Any awareness he'd had of the larger battle was gone; his only focus was staying alive.

Patrek Mallister was delivered to Asha already in chains. The deck of Black Wind was thick with blood, and Patrek's hair was matted with it too. "Give him to the Drowned God!" One of her crewmen urged. Others took up the cry, but Asha raised a hand for silence and they obeyed. "The Drowned God has has his fill for today. This man has a further purpose to serve."

The water bubbled and boiled, licking up the hull. Thick and black, it was unlike any water Dany bad seen before. The air was arid, hit and dry, you couldn't breathe too deeply for fear of inhaling ash, and that was when it wasn't thick. At least twice a day they were racked by fierce storms, coating the deck in a layer of black. Once one of the Unsullied got caught above decks during a storm, and by the time they found him his lungs had been incinerated. It was as if the Seven Hells had come to earth all at once, all in one place, and Dany could see how the greatest civilisation the world had ever known had never stood a chance. And yet, every time she stood on the prow and looked out, into the ash fog, she felt something.

Something, calling to her, like a beacon in the darkness, or an itch she just couldn't scratch. "Ser Jorah," She asked her knight. "I don't suppose I could go ashore?" Jorah had been scared the moment she'd made the decision to go through the Smoking Sea, and he seemed to be becoming more reclusive with every day. "Khaleesi..." He gulped. "You would die." But still, she felt it, a compulsive need to go. And then, to the side of the boat, a screech and a burst of flame. Drogon was skimming the black water, not bothered at all by the heat. In fact, all three of the dragons seemed to be revelling in it. Despite the press of the ash, they were growing. They were almost double the size now that they'd been when she left Astapor.

Dany raised her arm, and felt Rhaegal land on it. Viserion perched on her shoulder. Drogon burst up from the water and hovered, watching his brothers carefully. And then, with a screech that made Ser Jorah cover his ears, scooped her up and carried her off towards Tyria. Ser Jorah staggered forwards, crying out, but it was too late. She was lost. Rakharo was at Jorah's side, along with Dany's haidmaiden Irri. "Khaleesi!" She cried. The bloodrider looked to the queensguard. "Where is she?" He asked. Jorah looked at Rakharo, and then back out into the fog. "Our Khaleesi is dead."

Ned left King's Landing late afternoon on the day after they'd received the letter. With him rode several Knights, and fifty of his own men-at-arms. Another twenty Goldcloaks had been sent to guard the three Lannister children, and at their head rode Ser Arys Oakheart, a Knight of the Kingsguard. Gendry had wanted to send Baristan Selmy, the old Lord Commander who had been instrumental on securing the boy's place on the throne, but the Small Council had convinced him otherwise. The Lord Commander of the Kingsgaurd's place was, more than any of his sworn brothers, by the side of his King, and when that Lord Commander was as respected as Baristan Selmy, it would always do to keep him close. So Ser Arys had come in his place, hand-picked by Ned.

The Kingsguard had been in turmoil Gendry's ascension; Jaime Lannister had been dismissed for his crimes, and Loras Tyrell appointed in his place, but the latter had been killed when the former attacked King's Landing, losing his own life in the process. Ser Balon Swann, a Knight of much-known prowess, now wore the seventh white cloak. Of all those knights, Ned felt Ser Arys best suited to the task. He was valiant and strong, if his sword arm was somewhat lacking, and he always seemed jolly. It occurred to Ned that he was still a boy, despite the white cloak over his shoulders.

Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella were kept in a two story carriage pulled by four strong horses. The carriage was fitted with all the comforts they could need for the journey to Highgarden; cushions and pillows, blankets, even a chamber pot they could empty out the window whenever it was full. In retrospect, the chamber pot had been a bad idea. On the first day, Joffrey emptied his shit all over the nearest goldcloak while calling the man a traitor.

The three Lannister children had all taken to their captivity in different ways. Tommen was the easiest, perfectly naive and happy to comply with anything so long as he was kept comfortable. He had even been given two of the city cats by one of his guards. Joffrey, on the other hand, was a total nightmare. He was never satisfied by anything they gave him, always fighting them and screaming for his mother. Myrcella, the middle child, was a terrible mix of both. Quiet and compliant, she never complained or fought back, but she always carried herself with an air of strength that even Joffrey didn't have, and a look of silent defiance was ever in her eyes. The only person she really seemed to care about was her younger brother. Once, Joffrey had taken one of Tommen's cats and started torturing it, and Tom had been too scared to do anything. So Myrcella had. She had braved her brother's screams and beatings and rescued the cat. The daughter, rather than the sons, Ned realised, was the true heir of Tywin Lannister. And that scared him.

Asha had Patrek tied to the mast and brought Black Wind close to the shore where his father could see him. "Surrender the castle within twenty four hours or I will hang your son." Was all she wrote in the letter she sent to Jason Mallister. Jason was not a weak man, that was true, but his love for his son and heir was well-known. And besides that, they had the men to take the castle by force if they had to, so declining would get Jason nothing more than a dead son on top of a pile of dead small folk.

Jason opened the gates after two hours of deliberation, and, true to her word, Asha let his son live. Patrek was the first man through the gates, staggering in his chains. "Drop your swords." Jason ordered, laying his own blade at Asia's feet. "A wise decision Lord Jason." She nodded curtly, the glsnced at her men. "Imprison any highborn knights or nobles you find. Ignore the small folk. Butcher anyone still holding a sword." Seagard was hers, and at minimal cost to both sides. Asha wondered if this was how Aegon had felt as he forged his throne from the swords of those who had knelt.

Victarion's axe came down hard, splitting open the wood where Davos's head had been a moment before. Davos was fast, a life of smuggling had given him that. But it had never prepared him for facing the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet in single combat. His sword did no damage at all to his foe's heavy plate armour, but even so much as a glancing blow from Victarion's axe would've torn him in two. Davos struck Victarion's back, but Greyjoy span around around and Davos had to retreat again.

He backed up, and found himself up against a wall. "Shit." He cursed, raising his blade. Victarion was throwing his axe down upon him, and all Davos could do to was pray to his gods. The huge axe slid through the steel of his sword as if it were paper. But the axe was turned aside, and embedded itself in the wood by his head. Davos breathed a sigh of relief, but he didn't have time to catch his breath. A hand punched him in the face and he felt his nose break. Another punch hit him in the gut and he doubled over, his face meeting a mailed knee. Fingers clasped on his shoulders and yanked him up, where Victarion was waiting to deliver a furious headbutt.

Jon watched as Theon's uncle backhanded the captain and smashed him to the ground. His ankles were raw from the ropes binding him to the mast, but the pain of watching men he couldn't help get cut down went deeper than anything physical. Theon loosed an arrow and strode closer to where Jon was hanging. "Theon!" Jon called out to him, thankful that he hadn't been gagged. The traitor glanced around at him. "This isn't you!" Jon pleaded. Theon's eyes were full of indecision. "You can stop him! You have to!" Over on the other ship, Davos was staggering around like a drunkard as Victarion beat him to death. Theon followed John's gaze. "Listen to me!" Jon cried. "For Robb! Do some good you bastard!" Theon turned to Jon, his features dark. "I am no bastard."

Davos was on the deck, blood smearing his vision, aching all over from a dozen wounds. Looming over him, Victarion Greyjoy had his hands raised, about to deliver his finishing blow. And then two feet of steel exploded from his chest. Victarion was dead, Davos knew, but the Iron Captain didn't seem to agree. Whirling around, he grabbed a boy by the throat. "Balon was right. You were always a Stark." Theon dropped his sword. "Damn right." Victarion squeezed tightly, crushing his nephew's windpipe, then threw him aside as if he were a ragdoll. Jon could barely feel his ankles or wrists, but he didn't let it stop him. Clutching up Theon's fallen sword so he one in each hand, he lunged towards the Iron Captain. Victarion reached up and caught Jon's first blade, but the cut was too strong and Victarion was too weak. It took four of his fingers off. Jon's second blade buried itself deep in Greyjoy's shoulder.

Victarion took a step forwards, and Jon didn't doubt he still had the strength to kill him. The sword was still buried in his foe's shoulder, but his other blade was free. Arrows sailed over Jon's head and three found themselves in Victarion's chest. But still he kept coming, bellowing and raging. Somehow he'd found a dirk and was holding that in the hand that still had fingers. "One chance." Jon muttered under his breath, gripping the sword so tight his knuckles went pale. Victarion charged, aiming his dirk directly for Jon's throat, but Jon was ready. He spun the sword up, driving the point between the plate at Victarion's neck and his helmet, entering just below his jaw and exploding out the top of his head. Victarion collapsed. The Iron Captain was dead.

Jon staggered across the deck to where Theon was lying, wheezing and choking. His neck was a mangled mess, crushed beyond hope. "We can escape." Jon told him, taking him in his arms. "No..." Theon said, his words barely audible. "T-tell Robb...t-te-tell him I..." Theon wheezed and panted. "You were his brother, Theon." Jon replied. "You always were. You're a true Stark, and I'm proud to call you..." Theon's eyes slid shut, and he went limp in Jon's arms. "...brother."

Davos pushed himself to his feet. He was alive, by some miracle, but they weren't out of it yet. He knew he only had moments before the Ironborn realised what had happened. Grabbing the wheel, he wrenched the ship around and aimed it for the mouth of the bay. One of his remaining crewmen blew a horn, and the battle was lost. _Stone Dragon _limped away, at the head of about eleven other ships. Twelve ships survived, out of fifty. Davos looked back into the bay. Ships were burning all the way from Tarbeck Hill to the Feastires. Dead men filled the water.

Highgarden was strange in that it was one of the strongest castles in Westeros, while also being the most attractive. It was gleaming white from a distance, and the three tiers of walls leading up to the keep shone in the sun. Sprawling out below the castle were fields of roses blanketing the countryside like a sheet of red. Ned's column was let through the gates and into the streets, that gleamed just like the castle did from the outside. The differences from King's Landing were different almost immediately; the people actually seemed happy here. They were met with a smile by Margaery Tyrell, the daughter of Lord Mace Tyrell. She always seemed to be smiling, and not just in the presence of the highborn either. She spent time with the commoners, ate with the masses, drunk with them, danced with them. All completely alien concepts in King's Landing.

"Welcome, My Lord." Margaery said, bowing her head slightly. Trailing behind her were ranks of handmaidens, all smiling as broadly as she was. They were throwing roses into the crowds. Margaery herself was dressed in a foam-green dress, with a top that cut low, leaving little to the imagination. Ned wondered if this was for the benefit of his party, but the tales of the Lady Margaery's beauty, and how aware she was of it, were rife even in the North. Her hair hung in waves over her shoulders, not quite golden or white like that of the Lannisters or Targaryens, but still entrancing under the sunlight. She held out a white rose and Ned took it out of courtesy. "Lady Margaery." He said. "Come," Margaery replied, "my father awaits."

Lord Mace Tyrell was a man who carried himself as if he exuded power, but that was something he certainly hadn't done for years. He was handsome, but that was hardly surprising given the way all his children looked. Dark auburn hair hung down to his shoulders and covered his jaw. He rose from his seat at the head of the hall and smiled. "Welcome, Lord Eddard!" He bellowed. Tywin had arrived first, it angered Ned to notice. He wasn't smiling. Tywin Lannister never smiled. Along the sides of the hall, two tables had been laid out, one draped in the Direwolf and Stag of Stark and Baratheon, and the other with the Lion of Lannister. Sitting beside Tywin, all in fetters and chains, were Catelyn, Edmure and Brynden. Catelyn was stiff. She looked unharmed, but Ned still wanted to rush to her. He didn't. He nodded and Ser Arys lead the three Lannister children inside. Tommen was crying, Joffrey was cursing, and Myrcella was silent. Tywin stood and his guardsmen brought the three Tullys forward. "My friends of Stark and Lannister!" Mace Tyrell began. "We are gathered for this exchange because it is in the best interests of your great houses! Let us be reunited with those we love, and then share a feast!"

Catelyn and Myrcella went first, then Brynden and Tommen, and finally Joffrey and Edmure. It was done. Ned had the chains struck off the Tullys and lead them to their seats. "This was a mistake." Said Catelyn. "I didn't lose you, it wasn't a mistake." Ned replied. She squeezed his hand gently under the table, and that was all the affection they could show. Over on the Lannister table, Joffrey was sat with a smug look upon his face, and Ned wondered if it had been a mistake to give him up.

The news of Seagard's capture by the Ironborn didn't distress Robb nearly as much as it should have done. If anything, he welcomed it. The entire army of the North stood at his disposal, and thus far he had done nothing with it. The Lannisters had taken the Riverlands, that was clear, and he didn't have enough men to make any significant incursion. They marched slowly, all hoping something would change by the time they reached the crossroads. It did. They were maybe two leagures past Fairmarket when news reached them. "We must turn and retake Seagard!" Declared the Greatjon Umber. Ser Wylis Manderly, son and heir of the Lord Wyman of White Harbour, nodded his agreement. "Any further than that and the Ironborn will be in the North. They must be stopped here." Declared his brother, Ser Wendel.

Robb had already made the decision of course, but it was good to hear that his Lords and Captains were with him. Before the sun rose the orders had been dispatched amongst the camp, and in the morning they began marching back down the Kingsroad, keeping a much faster pace than before. Robb hardly saw Grey Wind as they marched, but he did not doubt the wolf was at the side of the column, hunting, killing. In fact, he knew it. Sometimes, in his dreams, it was as if he was with Grey Wind. Not with, more like he _was _his direwolf.

Things went from good to bad to worse for Asha Greyjoy. One day she was celebrating with her crews, drinking at the expense of the Mallisters, and the next she had enemies on all sides. First to arrive had been the Royal ships, a small fleet slipping into Ironman's Bay unnoticed, followed by a huge army appearing from the South. The banners showed the army to be lead by the Stark in Winterfell, but it seemed as though half the North had turned out. Asha had no idea why Seagard merited such an attack, but that didn't matter now. If Robb Stark was anything like his father Asha knew he'd let them surrender, but they were Ironborn. They would not surrender. And that meant only one thing; they were dead.

"Get up you bastard!" Grenn groaned, giving Pyp a weak kick in the ribs. "Let me sleep!" Pyp replied. His feet were buried under snow, and the rest of his black cloak was covered liberally. "It's cold! We don't all have freakish amounts of body fat to keep us warm!" Dolorous Ed staggered up to Grenn's side. "Leave him. He'll only be, what, the sixteenth we've lost?" He said, as pessimistic as ever. "Seventeenth." Grunted Grenn. He'd been counting. Sixteen brothers had died or been otherwise lost during their journey back to The Wall. They told themselves it was always the cold that took them, but they all knew that wasn't true. The Others were always there, following them, blue eyes piercing the darkness. Sixteen men had died, but Grenn couldn't let Pyp join them. He handed his torch to Ed and scooped up his friend.

The Wall was deceptive. It had been looming above them for two days before they finally reached gate in the black of night. Twenty three of them had survived out of the three hundred that had camped at the Fist of the First Men. The single blast of the horn was a beautiful sound, and it filled them all with a last surge of courage. Pyp found his legs and forced himself on, wobbling like a drunkard. They were standing outside the gate, waiting for it to open, when the eyes appeared. All along the treeline, hundreds of blue eyes shining at them in the inky darkness. And they were coming closer.

"OPEN THE GATES!" Grenn bellowed, putting himself between his group and the Haunted Forest, sword in both hands. Metal grated against metal as the first of the gates cranked open, but it wasn't fast enough. The first Other stepped out of the shadows. It was a tall, lanky creature, with blue and white skin stretched tightly across the bones. The Other wore no clothes besides a small swath of cloth around its waist, and only a few wisps of white hair clung to its head. It raised its sword, and out of the woods, the dead came walking. Some of them were fresh, almost still alive, but the older ones were little more than bones. They were dressed in the black of the Night's Watch or the rough fur of the free folk, none were safe.

The dead army lurched forwards at once, their movements jerky and slow. Grenn moved to meet them, hacking at their rotting flesh. He took off arms and legs, made blows that would've killed a man, but they kept coming. A hand grasped at his cloak but he pushed it off. Those of his company still strong enough to hold a sword were with him now, jabbing and slashing at the encroaching horde. But dead men have no fear of steel. Some fell to be sure, any without legs or heads wouldn't keep coming, but for every one they stopped, another two would rise again. And their numbers were dwindling rapidly. Grenn had to watch as the man beside him was dragged down by a torrent of icy hands.

The Other was always there, standing a head above the tallest wight, watching impassively as the men of the Night's Watch were slowly overrun. Only a few were still fighting, the rest had already submitted. Behind them the gates were still rattling open, but to Grenn they seemed miles away. His sword was slick with dried blood, and his arms were aching. When a Wight finally wrenched it from his hands it almost came as a relief. Cold fingers closed around his throat. And then the gates were open and a sea of fire was flooding out. The Wight shrank back. At their head was a black clad knight with a firm scowl.

Ser Aliser Thorne swept the flaming torch in a wide arc. His brothers were doing the same, pushing back the dead. They hissed and screeched, but couldn't stand before the fire. The Other was moving towards him, a pale greatsword clutched in an impossibly strong hand. Thorne moved to meet it. The Other made a slash and the Knight dodged it, the frozen steel cutting the air above his head. With a grunt Ser Aliser thrust his torch into his foe's shoulder. The flames caught and the Other let out an ear splitting scream. It dropped it's sword and started batting at the fire, giving him an opening to decapitate the monster with a single blow. His sword shattered as it cut through flesh and bone, but it had served it's purpose; The Other collapsed, dead. Thorne grabbed the head and ran.

"It grieves me greatly to announce the death of Lord Commander Mormont. Reports state that he was slain by Traitors during a mutiny at Craster's Keep. While I'm sure we allagree that this crime must not go unpunished, we currently have more pressing matters to attend to." Maester Aemon announced to the dining hall as the black brothers ate. "As I'm sure you'll know, the death of a Lord Commander requires that a vote be held to determine who shall be next to hold the mantle." The brothers knew this, of course, but the announcement made it official. "Does anyone have a nomination?" Aemon asked. Janos Slynt was on his feet at once. "I nominate myself." He declared. Next came Bowen Marsh, a steward who saw this as his last chance, and then Aliser Thorne. "Three nominations. Are there any others?" At the back of the hall, someone cleared their throat and shouted. "Donal Noye!" The one armed blacksmith lurched to his feet. He hadn't expected the nomination, but he accepted it nonetheless.

Grenn looked to Pyp, but found his friend on his feet. "Grenn the Aurouchs!" He shouted. A smarter of agreement went up from the survivors of the ranging. Grenn pulled Pyp back down. "What the fuck are you doing?" He asked quietly. "Half of us wouldn't be here without you!" Pyp replied. Maester Aemon raised his hand. "Janos Slant. Bowen Marsh. Aliser Thorne. Donal Noye. Grenn." In his quiet but powerful voice. "Any one of you may soon be called upon to answer the call and become the nine hundred and ninety eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Do you accept this?" They did one by one, until Grenn was the last one left. He knew he was unlikely to be chosen, but still, there was the possibility. "I do." He finally decided.

Voting for a new Lord Commander took place every day until a single candidate received two thirds of the votes, and, after a couple of hours of voting, Maester Aemon was ready to announce the results. "Grenn, fifty seven votes. Ser Aliser Thorne, sixty three votes. Janos Slynt, ninety four votes. Bowen Marsh, one hundred and six votes. Donal Noye, one hundred twenty three votes. A total four hundred and forty three votes cast." That wasn't nearly the entire strength of the Watch, but it was only the first day.

On the second day, hours before the votes, Grenn and Pyp were drinking in the old hall. "Why, Pyp? You knew I wouldn't win." Grenn asked. "You still might." Pyp said, thumping Grenn on the arm. "After all, the common folk like a Lord who's as stupid as they are." Grenn didn't a chance to return the punch, because Aliser Thorne stormed into the room. He was flanked by ten brothers, all dressed impressively in their finest black. The common hall was packed with men, and they all turned to look. He walked to the head of the hall and cleared his throat loudly. "Brothers!" He shouted. His ten companions drew their swords and lined up behind him, in a show of strength. Pyp noticed Janos Slynt, the former Lord Commander of the King's Landing City Watch, sitting close to where Ser Aliser was standing, a slight smirk on his face. "I did not do too well yesterday, I can accept that." And then he threw open a bag and yanked out the head of an Other.

"I killed this! I did! I defended the Wall from the greatest foe the Watch has faced." The reaction was instant. Some of them shouted and cried, others shied away from the head, others tried to take it, only to be rebuffed by the ten men with Ser Aliser. Janos Slynt rose to his feet and the hall went silent. "And I retract my claim." He chucked the head to Janos Slynt, who caught it on the tip of his sword. "I pledge my support to Janos Slynt!"

The votes were cast later that day, and Grenn felt something bad was on the way. He didn't like Ser Aliser, and anyone the knight liked could only be just as bad. Donal Noye or Bowen Marsh would've been decent choices, Grenn thought. Maester Aemon finished counting the votes and the hall went quiet. Aemon opened a roll of parchment, and started to read. "Grenn, forty nine. Donal Noye, one hundred forty give. Bowen Marsh, one hundred sixty four. Janos Slynt, two hundred and thirty six. five hundred and ninety four votes cast." This time, almost all the black brothers had voted. Janos Slynt may have been well in the lead, but he still didn't have anything close to the two thirds he needed to win.

"You will win." Ser Aliser said, tearing off a chunk of slightly stale bread. "How can you be so sure?" Janos spat back. "I know these men. We've swayed them, we just need to sway them more." The knight replied.  
>"And how do we do that?"<br>"We need to take a man out of the running."  
>"The boy isn't going to win." Said Janos. "I can take Marsh, though."<br>Ser Aliser shook his head. "Kill him and they'll just vote for Noye. The bloody blacksmith, he's the one we need to deal with."

Mace Tyrell certainly had a hearty appetite; it seemed to Ned as though he ate this well every day, and a feast was no special event to him. He was itching to leave, to get back to King's Landing as soon as possible, but he couldn't. Lord Mace stood up and clapped his hands. Everything went quiet. "It has been a day to celebrate, indeed!" He began, "but it is not yet over. It gives me great pleasure and pride, to see my daughter betrothed." Margaery stood , smiling broadly. "And betrothed, might I add, to a king!"

Alarm bells were ringing for Ned, but he kept his seat. Joffrey and Lord Tywin were on the feet too. "Highgarden and Casterly Rock are to be joined as one," said Tywin, "as we announce the marriage contract of Joffrey Lannister, King of the West and the Riverlands, and Lady Margaery Tyrell, the Maid of Highgarden." They had called Joffrey a king. The doors of the hall slammed shut, and swords were being drawn. Up in the balconies, men had appeared with crossbows. "Shit!" Brynden Tully exclaimed, pushed the table onto its side. They ducked down behind it, all but Ser Arys, who had his sword in his hands and was charging at the long table.

The first crossbow bolt took him in the chest, the second in the leg, the third in the back, and the fourth in the throat. He collapsed just yards from the Tyrells, his golden sword falling from his hands, blood bubbling up from his throat as he tried to breathe. "Lord Stark." Mace Tyrell boomed. "Arise." Catelyn's eyes pleaded with Ned's behind the table. "Don't." She hissed. Ned shook his head sadly, drawing Ice from its sheath and standing. "Let us go, Lord Mace. King's Landing has no quarrel with Highgarden." He said. Mace tutted. "But my daughter wants to be a queen, Lord Eddard. And your stubborn boy king will not grant her that. Thankfully, Lord Tywin has been much more...cooperative."  
>"And what, may I ask, were the terms he offered you?" Ned asked, and almost instantly knew he'd said the wrong thing. "A wolf pelt, Lord Stark." Mace replied. "A wolf pelt, for a golden crown." The crossbows twanged, and the Tyrell men advanced on him. The few goldcloaks that had accompanied them were slain first, and a crossbow bolt took Ned in the back as he cut down an attacker to his front.<p>

Whirling around he struck down another man. The Blackfish had snatched up a sword and was fighting valiantly, but three shafts already sprouted from his chest. Bolts fell all around, most finding themselves in the floor, but a few hit their mark, and Ned felt himself slipping away. Ice fell from his grasp, and he turned to find Catelyn in his arms. They kissed one more, blood mingling with their lips.

"I challenge Donal Noye, to single combat." Janos Slynt said, drawing his sword. The one armed blacksmith rose and stepped towards him. His eyes were afire, and it seemed, for a second, as though he was going to punch him into the ground then and there. Janos wouldn't meet his glare, but his sword kept them apart. And then the tension collapsed as Donal muttered. "I retract my claim." He said, turning to the hall at large. "I retract my claim!" Donal swept from the hall, and it was time for what was destined to be the final round of voting.

Janos Slynt became the nine hundred and ninety eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and was sworn in that very night. He said his vows once more in Castle Black's small sept, and then went to the top of The Wall. Grenn and Pyp had the watch that night, and they stood shivering as a man known for being corrupt and treacherous took command below them. "I should've won." Grenn said, hugging himself to keep warm. "You'd have been a shit lord, if it helps." Pyp replied. Grenn was about to retort, when Pyp pointed behind him. He span around to see Mole's Town in flames. And the fire was slowly coming towards them. North of the Wall, a thousand torches suddenly lit up. "Wildlings!" Grenn shouted, grabbing for his horn. On either side, the free folk were amassing under the banner of Mance Rayder, and the Night's Watch found themselves surrounded and under siege.

The kraken's scaled tentacle lashed up the sides of the ship, ensnaring a dothraki and pulling him under. A second tentacle coiled around the mast, and Ser Jorah buried his sword in it, but to no avail. "Spears!" He bellowed, and a pair of unsullied plunged theirs into it. The tentacle whipped up and smashed against the mast, cracking it. A purple tendril snaked across the deck, knocking two men and a horse into the boiling sea below them.

The mist was as close as ever, so Ser Jorah couldn't see the krakens as they came towards the ship. The first they'd known was when a huge mouth appeared in the water directly beside them and began swallowing sailors. They had no idea of knowing how many krakens there were, but at least three were attacking the ship at a time. Their tentacles were lined with suckers that could rip the skin clean off a man's face, and the tips were strong enough to punch through solid wood. They had three rows of teeth that would tear a man to pieces like a meat grinder.

Ser Jorah lopped off the very tip of a tentacle that had strayed too close to him, but he knew all was over when he felt another wrap itself around his ankle. He was yanked up into the air, his sword falling from his grasp. He tore his dagger free of its sheath and stabbed it deep into the slimy purple tendril and it released him. For a moment he was falling towards the deck, before a second tentacle grabbed him, coiled tight around his wrist. It was over, he knew, as yet another found its way around his throat. Down on the ship below, anarchy had erupted. Someone had tried to set an arm afire, but had only succeeded in sending the flames leaping up the main mast. Horses charged where they pleased, and the few men still standing had given up the fight.

And then came a high, shrill, powerful cry of, "DRACARYS!" Below Ser Jorah the kraken's mouth was suddenly alive with orange, bright tongues licking down its throat. A dark green shape flew down and plucked it from the water as a bird would pick up a fish. Rhaegal batted his wings and launched himself into the air, taking the kraken with him, and the beast finally dropped Ser Jorah. The knight was falling again, the world a blur as he sped towards the Smoking Sea. And then a dark red shape swept below him, and he found Daenerys staring back at him. Gone were the simple robes she had taken from Slaver's Bay, instead she was garbed in bright crimson armour and a flowing black cloak. On her head rested a crown of pure gold, inlaid with rubies, a design of a three headed dragon reaching into the sky.

"Kha...Khaleesi?" Jorah asked. She smiled at him. "My brave bear." He had never seen her ride a dragon before, but it seemed as natural to her now as a Dothraki riding a horse. Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion had grown vastly, now they all dwarfed even Balerion the Black Dread, whose mouth was so big a mammoth could ride straight down his gullet. Down in the waters, one of the larger krakens latched three of his tentacles around Viserion's throat, but the golden dragon simply spat a column of fire down the monster's throat and blew it up from the inside. _Fire made flesh_, Ser Jorah thought, and then, as he looked at his queen, _and so is she_.


End file.
